There are many travellers who would never dream of setting foot in an Irish pub. They are too busy immersing themselves in the local culture, partying in hidden spaces, browsing art and absorbing history in areas far from sightseeing bus tours.
I get that. I do. I’m there. Too much, perhaps. Which is why – exhausted after days of rolling in at dawn and conversing in fragments of a new language – I occasionally find myself stepping, foot-weary and frazzled, into an Irish pub. Yes, it is the easy option. But I am on holiday. This is not an endurance test.
Essentially, Irish pubs are a global network of safe spaces for the Englishspeaking diaspora. The staff may well be Kiwis and Cockneys, but they speak your language. There is beer you recognise, a menu you understand and, if you follow sport, they always have the match on. Anywhere on the planet, I can make a quick time-zone calculation, Google ‘Irish pub’, and within 20 minutes be watching Manchester City as if back home in my local. Personally, I find that a great comfort.
Are Irish pubs good? God, no! Many are loud barns playing the Hothouse Flowers and The Cranberrries on repeat. They feel as authentic as a plastic shamrock. The craic can be abysmal. Many of their punters will be incoherently drunk. There will be a stag-do. But you will meet people from all over the world. And Irish pubs are familiar. Sometimes that is enough.